


Snowdon

by rivier



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:06:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22949806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivier/pseuds/rivier
Summary: Coda, set between seasons 1 and 2. Owen, Ianto, and the shape left by the absence of Jack.
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones, Owen Harper/Ianto Jones
Comments: 15
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written and posted to lj between seasons 1 and 2. I've tweaked a little, just to reflect some of what S2 revealed.
> 
> There is excessive swearyness from start to finish. (Owen POV, though, so what do you expect?)
> 
> This story was helped hugely by lj friends who beta'd it and gave me invaluable feedback. God, I miss LJ as much as I miss Torchwood, to be honest. Not just a blip in time.

Owen knows that the trick to surviving Torchwood is in your head. You have to keep your emotions in a tight grip, build up some kind of decent mental resilience, to get through day after day dealing with Weevils and murderous fairies, orgasm-addict aliens, heart-eating aliens, human-eating humans and all the rest. 

It's either that or go mad and get carted off with your brain dribbling out of your ears. Torchwood One used to 'retire' a dozen employees a month, retconned back into dull, safe, ordinary lives. 

It had been even more of a busy old time in Cardiff in the last nine months, after Canary Wharf fell. And - leaving Susie out of it - none of them had gone certifiably mad, though they'd all had their share of fuck-ups and blow-outs, and Ianto's OCD housemaid fetish was probably bad enough to get him sectioned. Generally, though, Owen thinks they’d all been doing pretty well, considering. 

Right up to the moment when he'd grabbed Jack's gun off the floor and aimed, and Jack had _died_ in front of them all. Indisputably dead, lying there with Owen’s own bullet between his eyes, a couple more in the chest, just to be sure. Christ, what had possessed him?

And then Jack Harkness had come back from the dead. Just like that. 

And then he'd bloody died again - just in case any of them had missed it the first time, maybe? Jack had never really been the kind of guy who did subtle and understated. Mortuary slab one minute (or to be accurate, the best part of a week) and standing there the next, middle of the Hub, smiling and matter-of-fact, hands on hips as Owen had stepped up to take his punishment. What he'd been given instead was almost harder for Owen to make sense of, in hindsight, than the whole resurrection thing. 

Jack being Jack, of course he then had to round it all off by vanishing right off the face of the Earth. 

Not the easiest boss Owen's ever tried to make sense of, no.

***

In the circumstances, the four of them blundering around like headless chickens for a bit after - Abbadon, and all that, had probably been the only truly sane response. A shock reaction, perfectly normal. 

Even then, it hadn’t taken too long for them all to get on with what they had been trained to do: trying to make sense of the inexplicable disappearance of Jack. A migraine-inducing slog through every single anomaly read-out, all the CCTV footage from inside the Hub, all over Cardiff, and then across Wales, London, the bigger cities, anywhere the Rift had spiked activity when it'd been - 

When he, Owen, had opened it, yeah. The second time, they'd all been united together against Jack, but the first time was down to him alone. It feels important to Owen that he doesn't try to kid himself about that.

And now they’re united again, not against Jack but for him, searching. Just in case some Rift aftershock had snagged him in its slipstream and thrown him half-way around the world, on a whim. _Something's taken Jack_ , Gwen had said, even though she still can't explain why she'd thought that, or whether he'd gone willingly or not.

None of them leave, that first week. Gwen has Rhys running supplies to the door of the Information Centre. She vanishes upstairs for a few minutes of whatever canoodling and reassurance it takes to keep old Rumbly happy, coming back with carrier bags of food and drink and clean clothes for herself and Tosh. 

Any other time, Ianto would be huffing at someone else taking responsibility for keeping them stocked up, but he's glued to the monitor on Suzie's desk, squinting through the camera feeds, hour after hour. "I trust this better than I trust that," he says shortly, pointing at his head and then at Tosh's computer, and she just nods. At least it keeps him quiet.

Eventually, there comes a point where the endless panoramas of streets and buildings are blurring together, and the Hub environmental stats have nothing whatsoever to tell them apart from a momentary dip-and-spike in temporal radiation about the time Jack went AWOL. 

And the outside world is knocking on their door. After Abbadon, there'd been a rare lull in Rift activity, but it couldn’t last long. Now they're back to police reports - "Gwen love, there's another of them funny circus freak creatures of yours running around Bute Park" - and UNIT are emailing them, wanking off about UFOs over Cardiff Bay, and Downing Street’s on the phone: the Prime Minister is complaining about the absence of his usual status reports from the last half-viable Torchwood outpost.

It isn't that Owen ever has a moment when he thinks it's time to step up. He's practical, that's all, and people standing around waving their hands and doing fish impressions when things need to be done annoy the shit out of him, even when they're his own people. While Gwen’s off sorting out her old pals down at the nick, and Tosh is patiently trawling through satellite feeds for the last week, trying to suss what's got UNIT's knickers in a twist, Owen heads for Jack’s office, practically dragging Ianto by the scruff after him.

"Stop whining! This is a doddle. I can do the talking, but I'll be in the shit if they ask me any facts or figures. We'll use the speakerphone, and you can write down anything I need to say."

Ianto's unshaven, red-eyed and nervy, and he reminds Owen a bit too much of the way he'd looked in the cannibal's kitchen in Brynblaidd, beaten and gagged and at the end of his rope. But at least he doesn't say something stupid like _We have to let them know Jack's missing._ He folds his arms tightly, rocking, and says, "What are you going to tell them?"

"Oh, I don't know. Jack's undercover - some bollocks like that. Trust me, they'll lap it up. The PM doesn't want to talk to him really. This is all about them kidding themselves we're like all their civil service flunkies, just sitting around waiting to ask how high when Number 10 says Jump! You ready?"

"No," Ianto mutters, but he opens the desk drawer, takes out a pad and pen and pulls the phone over. Jack's chair is between them, but neither of them sits down. Ianto dials without looking up the number: he's good at this stuff, Owen has to admit - the way he makes even a Welsh accent sound posh and slightly bored as he carves through the Downing Street switchboard.

The private secretary in the PM's office recognises his voice. "Ianto! We were wondering where Cardiff had gone. Emma thought you lot might be doing a Torchwood Two. Were you waiting until the Election fuss settled down?"

Ianto looks at Owen. His eyes are watering from the non-stop CCTV fest, though he's probably been sneaking off to the bathroom for a good snivel every few hours. "Been a little busy here, Susanna," he says smoothly, in his best can-I-get-you-another-cup? voice. "The Captain's not available at the moment, but Doctor Harper would be happy to bring the PM up to speed. Shall I put him through?"

"Please do." The line clicks a couple of times, and Ianto nods. Owen licks his lips, tugs down his t-shirt, and leans towards the mic. "Harper here."

***

The medical storeroom is next door to the Hub's tiny sickbay. Owen chills out in there, takes a toot of NO2 when he's feeling like a pick-me-up, and checks his supplies of Zopiclone and citalopram. He's made a bet with himself on which of the team is going to crack first, and he's looking forward to being proved right. 

In his more charitable moments, Owen reluctantly factors in that Ianto's younger than all of them, that he used to be nothing more than an archivist in Torchwood HQ, a back-room nerd rather than a field agent. He's probably still suffering from some major PTSD after Canary Wharf, and he hasn't had the same experiences as the rest of them, of getting knocked over again and again and still getting up and carrying on. Even Gwen had nearly a decade with the police to toughen her up.

In his more irritable moments - which do tend to outweigh the benign ones by about fifty to one right now - Owen thinks simply that Ianto has always been a great big weirdo. Hiding his cyber-squeeze away in the basement for nearly six months, for example, and thinking that was all going to turn out hearts and flowers in the end. Bit of a giveaway that the teaboy wasn't really playing with a full deck, when you thought about it.

One by one, they all start to leave the Hub at night and go back home to sleep, back to something like the way things had been when Jack was there. More or less. Owen even tries hitting the bars one evening, only to find that he's sitting there drinking mineral water like some kind of tosser - like that bastard Jack Harkness, in fact - just in case he gets a call and needs to be sober and ready to go. It's a fucking nuisance.

Ianto is the only one who won't leave. Owen rigs a feed off the main Hub camera loop one afternoon, to confirm his suspicions. That evening, he slides into an autopsy lab locker, only noticing as he pulls the door shut that it’s the same one he and Gwen had hidden in when the creature that wasn’t Ianto’s girlfriend had been hunting them down. Aww, their first brief encounter, only three months ago. Feels like another lifetime. 

In the dark, he watches the grainy live footage on his phone of Ianto methodically putting the Hub systems on standby for the night, then showering so long that the bathroom camera lens steams up. Next thing he's walking back across the Hub, starkers, with a roll of clothing under his arm. He goes up the stairs, into Jack's office, and down the hatch into Jack's own room, closing the trapdoor behind him.

The sad bastard's sleeping in Jack's bed. _Naked_. Owen feels a rush of irritation and contempt and a twinge of something that feels almost like envy. He deletes the files, resets the cameras, and tucks a couple of the little metal pellets he’d blagged from that over-eager UNIT surveillance cadet into his suture kit before sneaking out of the Hub.

It doesn't take long after that, maybe another week. Owen's been gunning for it, to tell the truth, because he wants this over and done with and, in a funny way, for a guy so capable of sneaky, devious deception, sometimes Ianto is actually very linear - predictable, if you knew what buttons to press. 

It's a Friday lunchtime, and they're arguing. Well, Gwen and Ianto and Owen are arguing: Tosh stays out of it, as she has done ever since Jack vanished. The moment any of them start bickering about what to do next or what might have happened, Tosh moves quietly off and starts tidying cables under her desk, or reading Rift print-outs. She can be annoyingly mature at times.

Owen doesn’t really even need to do anything to get it started. It kicks off with some bullshit about Gwen wanting to get Missing Person posters printed up. Ianto likes the idea - but then again Ianto would be happy to turn the front of the Millennium Centre into a giant billboard for Jack, and have skywriters flying from the Wye Valley to bloody Anglesey and all points in between.

"We are supposed to be a covert fucking operation here. Have you both forgotten what that means?"

"We don't have to mention Torchwood on the posters," Gwen says, stubborn as ever. Owen isn't remotely worried about Gwen cracking. He knows her by now, recognises the thin but necessary thread of steely selfishness that runs through everything she does. It's what makes her so able to empathise with others: at heart, Gwen will always do whatever it takes to keep herself going or fuel her compassion. For a while, that was screwing Owen: now, it's good old Rhys keeping her sane again, steady and trustworthy and the last person who's going to pop out of existence in front of her eyes.

"Anyway," Ianto says, "We drive all over the place in a SUV with Torchwood die-stamped down the side. Hardly all that covert."

"Look, just because Jack has an ego bigger than his own cock and can't ever resist showing off, doesn't mean we all have to be that stupid. Do you seriously think he'd want us running around shouting for him from the rooftops?"

"If it helps to get him back, yes!" They're standing on the autopsy steps, and Ianto is holding a tray of china cups. As he speaks, the rims chink softly like a tiny storm warning. 

Gwen tries again. "Once we get him logged as a formal misper, we've got the whole Compact network searching for him. We can ask DI Swanson to get some of her people deployed to -"

"You actually think the plods can come up with something we can't? Grow up!" Owen snaps, walking off. 

The cups are rattling more indignantly this time. "So you'd rather we all just sit around doing nothing?" Ianto says loudly.

"We are not 'doing nothing'. We are carrying on with our jobs, which is what Jack would want us to do. It's funny though, seeing as how you were the one so desperate for us to just sit on our arses when Jack and Tosh got dragged back to 1941. Now you just won’t stop whining. Did that last snog turn you into Action Man all of a sudden? I had no idea one good hard fuck could have such a -“

The tray hits the tiled wall a yard from his head, cups smashing and showering him with china slivers and cold coffee dregs. When Owen turns, Ianto is clenching his fists, knuckles white.

He doesn't need to say anything: his face is one great big contorted _Fuck you!_ He twists savagely out of Gwen's grip on his sleeve, and a moment later Owen hears the rumble and rattle of the main door opening. He shakes his head to dislodge the shards of glaze in his hair, grinning at Gwen who's glaring down.

"We need to - 'you' need to go after him!" she shouts, as Owen peels his lab coat carefully off and drops it on the floor on top of the broken china. It's all Ianto's mess, he can clean it up when he gets back. When, yes. No time to be thinking of ‘ifs’. He grabs the PDA from its charger and heads back up the stairs. 

Tosh is waiting with Gwen, looking just as stormy.

"Owen, for God's sake! You've been picking on him all week! What's he going to do? What if he doesn't come back?"

"Alright, alright, less of the girly histrionics if you don't mind." Owen plugs the handheld into the USB on his computer, turning the screen so that they can see the little blip-blip moving across the map of the Torchwood car park under the Plas.

It's not really his thing, all this techie stuff, but he still feels pretty pleased at how well it's working. It is Tosh's thing, of course, and it doesn’t take her any time to suss it out.

"You _chipped_ him?"

"Last Sunday," Owen says cheerfully. "Serves him right for making me go on that lunchtime run to Starbucks. A dash of Retcon and Halcion in his cappuccino, and he was flat out over Jack's desk, not for the first time. Come on!" - Tosh and Gwen are both looking at him as if he's grown an extra head - "I told you last week he'd blow his fuse sooner rather than later. Course I chipped him. Have you seen how fast he can move when he's in the mood? Bastard's legs are twice as long as mine. Now, the big question is, what happens next? Does he get raving drunk? Try to shag anyone who'll have him? Or does he go and find something really big and messy he can tidy up until he feels better?"

"You are such a shit," Gwen says tiredly, but she's looking thoughtful and Owen knows that she knows he's right. Tosh, though, is still staring at him with her mouth set tight.

"You're nice and blasé about this. What are you going to do if he - gets into real trouble? What if he tries to, you know, to do something to himself?"

Toshiko Sato. Computer genius, and completely crap at any sort of basic human psychology. No wonder she's so useless when it comes to pulling. Owen unplugs the tracker and grabs his coat.

"Use your head, Tosh. If Ianto was the suicidal type, he'd have topped himself right after his Cyber-missus went tits-up. There's no way he's going to do anything serious while he still doesn't know what’s happened to Jack. And in the meantime, I'm about to waste my weekend trailing along patiently after him to make sure he doesn't do anything too mental while he's getting it out of his system. Happy now?"

She doesn't argue. Tosh is fantastically smart, but she'll never be a leader, she just doesn't get off on beating down the opposition. Owen pats her hand.

"I promise I won't let anyone else feel him up while Jack's away, okay?"

She pulls a face, but nods anyway. As Owen heads for the lift, Gwen says, "Hang on, Doctor Evil. Have you tagged us, too?"

"Well, are you also planning on having a ditzy little breakdown any time soon? Thought not. Don't be such a drama queen, PC Cooper! Course I haven't tagged you!"

It's true that Gwen isn't going to wig out on him, Owen's sure of that. Tosh, though... not so sure. He'd chipped her the day after Ianto. He just has to hope she doesn't get suspicious and scan herself while he's gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Ianto's freak-out is pathetically short on alcohol, street drugs, punch-ups and recreational sex. The stupid bugger can't even lose it like any normal person would. Instead, he heads off on a nice long drive through lots and lots and lots of the bloody hideous 'scenic' Welsh landscape. Owen doesn't mind that too much, as it gives him the chance to give the Boxster a good long run, something he hasn't had time for in months. He keeps the windows wound tightly up and the heating on, and sings along loudly to whatever the iPod comes up with on shuffle.

They end up at some farm in the middle of nowhere. It's getting dark: Owen leaves the car and walks to a spot where he can see Ianto's car parked in a yard, and lights in the windows of the small farmhouse beside it. There's the sound of dogs barking, so he doesn't try to get any closer. 

He drives back to the last town they passed, and manages to find himself a nice pub with a couple of rooms over the bar. Frankly, he's had worse Friday nights. There's no talent to be seen, but the local beer is pretty reasonable and the shepherd's pie they serve in the bar is nice and hot, unlike the bedroom itself, but that's to be expected with the way the Welsh never want to turn up the heating for a stranger. 

Anyway, it helps him to be up and out of there long before Ianto's on the move again, and Owen's comfortably tucked down a back lane in his car, with tea in a polystyrene cup, a big bacon sandwich and a copy of The Guardian being ignored in favour of a quick romp through The Sun, before the PDA starts bleeping.

By the time the tracker pip stops again an hour or so later, it's started to rain. Owen pulls over, checks his map against the grid on the screen, and swears long and hard over the sublime beauty of New Order’s Temptation blasting out of the speakers. 

Snowdon? Mount bloody Snowdon? Ianto, you _tosser!_ It's February, and it's raining. What the fuck are you up to now?

After a while he can see the pip has moved fractionally: Ianto's probably on foot. Owen starts the engine again, trying to remember what Ianto had been wearing when he'd flounced out yesterday. Suit and tie, duh, and shiny brogues: not climbing gear, then. Unless Mr Be Prepared had some outdoors kit in his car boot - which, with Ianto, wasn't at all impossible. Just in case Jack was to re-materialise and say _Hey kids, did you miss me? Oh, and Iaahnto - we need to go climb some mountains right now!_ and Ianto would be all smiling and ready: _Of course, Sir. I've got spare hiking boots in your size in my car,_ and then Jack would say _You asking me to fill your boots, Ianto?_ and he'd turn and give the others that Jack look, the lazy, lecherous, irresistibly happy grin... 

Owen misses the grin, and the innuendo, which always seems to sound less sleazy when Jack does it. Owen might possibly have tried a few of Jack's lines in bars and clubs, though not with any success, yet.

Ianto's car is parked in one of the Snowdonia car parks, along with at least a couple of dozen other vehicles, which means a minimum of twenty-five maniacs whose idea of a laugh is climbing fucking Mount Snowdon on a cold Saturday in late February, when the sky and the ground are one big seamless drizzling grey blob. 

Owen stays in the car, eating a Kit Kat and scowling at the light rain, but there's no way around it and eventually he gets out. There's a sign at the foot of the main path that tells him, in English and Welsh, that this is a route best suited for the able-bodied and those with sturdy boots and walking clothes (except the Welsh bit which obviously says "Fuck off, stupid foreign tourists"), and he swears a bit more, does up his jacket, takes another squint at the PDA (now in a ziploc bag), and sets off up the shingled path. 

Maybe Ianto is planning on finding a nice tall bit of rock and jumping off after all? With the rain coming right into his face, Owen sets his teeth and decides if he is, he'll happily give the emo twat a swift boot up the arse to help him on his way. Just as soon as he finds him.

It takes Owen an hour and a half to catch up. Even without walking boots, Ianto has apparently managed to make his way up the slippery, rock-strewn path like Spiderman. Owen has trainers on, and he is still acutely aware of the nasty way the ground is waiting for any chance to start slithering under his feet.

Ianto is sitting on a rock by a lake, fifty yards or so to the left of the main path. Who the fuck put a lake half-way up a mountain? He's leaning forward low in a way that can't be good for his back, moving something on the ground that Owen can't see from here.

It's really, really tempting to sneak up quietly behind him and then holler. Ianto's nowhere near bomb-proof in the field yet, and there's every chance he'd jump hard enough to catapult himself into the water. It's a fucking nuisance how the idea comes to Owen at the exact same time that he remembers the feeling of Jack drawing him into that hug, still faintly chilly from the morgue. Kissing the top of his head as he'd wept. It isn't fair. 

Owen picks up a small stone and flicks it against the rock Ianto's hunched on instead. Even that makes him lurch upright hard enough to lose his balance and go stumbling onto the gravel. Owen hurries over and holds out a hand before his more natural instincts can get the better of him. "Sorry. I was trying not to startle you."

Ianto takes the proffered hand then lets go quickly, as soon as he's on his feet. His own hand is white and cold and his face doesn't look much better. He stares blankly at Owen for a bit, then says, "You traced the car?"

"Nah, you. Put a chip in you last week, where that Weevil nipped you in the shoulder." Owen looks down. On the ground where Ianto had been working, the small pebbles have been half-sorted into neat little heaps of different browns and greys. Something big and messy to tidy up, hmm? Okay, good, so Ianto really has gone stark mad. "Planning on organising the whole of Snowdonia, were you?" Owen says, gesturing. "Or just this particular shoreline?"

"Glaslyn," Ianto says. "It means Blue Lake. From the old copper mines, where the sulphates leached into the water. Looks pretty, but it kills everything that tries to live in it."

"Good to know all that time you've been putting in on the front desk hasn't been a total waste," Owen says lightly, but Ianto just stares out across the flat shining circle that doesn't seem to be any less grey than the rocks and sky all around it. There's water gathering in clear drops on the end of Ianto's nose. Owen hopes it's just the rain.

There's a ridiculously long wait. Owen shuffles his feet and tries not to fidget as cold wetness seeps down the back of his neck and into his soul, and Ianto doesn't move, doesn't blink, doesn't say a thing. Eventually, without looking at Owen, he says quietly, "What if he's dead?"

Owen almost laughs. "Look, I don't give a fuck if you really want to go round the bend, but the one thing I'm not doing with you is standing here in the pissing-down rain while we play the what-if game. If we're going to do that I want to be indoors, in a bar with a fireplace and decent beer and the Six Nations on the telly in the background. And I want a bath first, a bloody big hot bath so that my tackle can come out of hiding and defrost. And I want to be bone dry. You sort all that out for me, and I'll sit and listen to you get the angst off your chest all night long if you like. Deal?"

It's a gamble, but he sees Ianto wipe his face slowly, before he looks at Owen and shrugs.

"Do you have any dry clothes with you?"

"Oh yeah. I stopped off at home and packed a bag for the both of us before I went haring after you yesterday."

Ianto pulls his fair-enough face. "Then we should go back to my cousin's. We can dry out there. Might even manage a bath for you."

"That farm you stayed at last night?" Owen asks, and Ianto nods again. "Right. Well, come on then." Owen sets off without looking back, then stops. "Hang on, you go first. Give me something marginally less wet and dense than the rocks to land on if I slip."

He watches, and there it is: just the tiniest little fighting spark of annoyance and calculation in Ianto's narrowed eyes. That's more like it. Owen gestures impatiently, and Ianto strides past him and sets off at an effortless lope back down the track, somehow managing to not look like a complete prick even though he's in a suit that's dripping from every hem.


	3. Chapter 3

The cousin is called Elen, and she's like a pint-sized girl-Ianto with lovely tits, pale skin and dark hair and big beat-me-now eyes, and a seriously sexy pout as she watches the two of them dripping all over her kitchen floor. The resemblance strikes Owen when he's in the bath, about half a second after he'd been lying back up to his neck in steaming hot water, with his cock in one hand and a mug of tea in the other, thinking about how amazingly hot she was and how come he'd never had any cousins he'd wanted to shag... The revelation that he's getting horny thinking about a girl version of Ianto makes him choke on his mouthful of tea. Well, shit, Sherlock. 

Owen's commandeered the bath, while the luscious Elen dries out his clothes on the Aga. Ianto has to make do with a shower and a pair of jeans and big fuzzy jumper loaned out of Elen's husband's wardrobe, while the husband is half-way up another mountain watching his flocks or something. It's Ianto's fault they're both soaked to the bone and stuck out in the arse of nowhere in North Wales, so Owen doesn't feel that he's being unreasonable.

When he comes back down to the kitchen, swamped in Elen's old man's dressing gown (the guy must be at least as tall as Ianto), the spooky twin cousins are sitting at the table, talking quietly in Welsh.

"Elen says we can stay tonight, if we want to," Ianto says.

It's already starting to get dark through the kitchen windows, and it's still raining. The idea of a four-hour drive back down the length of dark wet Wales isn't all that tempting right now. Owen shrugs. "Yeah, why not? I mean, thanks, that'd be... So, are there any good pubs anywhere round here, then?"

Elen laughs, which makes Owen realise that he hasn't seen Ianto laughing much lately. Was it only Jack who made him laugh?

"There's a pub in the village, Dr Harper. But we do have things to drink here, you know. I think Hywel would divorce me if I left beer off the grocery list."

"Owen believes there are no shops in Wales anywhere outside Cardiff," Ianto says with a smirk.

Owen takes the mug of tea Elen's holding out to him, and gives her his best who-me? smile. “Owen is right about that too," he says.

"Online shopping," Elen says, opening the fridge door. "They'll deliver anywhere these days!" The fridge is one of those massive walk-in American-style things, and it's heaving with food. Elen smiles at Owen's surprised look. "Lambing season, see? Not a lot of time to pop out to Morrisons, or even cook much for that matter. Hywel and the boys want to come back, eat anything, fall asleep and get out there again. It's like a battlezone round here at this time of year."

She pulls a bottle out and hands it to Owen. "This alright for you? Or were you really desperate to go check out the night-life in Llanfachreth?" 

It's Chimay Red Label. Bloody hell. Owen presses his lips reverently against the cold neck of the bottle, then salutes Elen with it. "Listen, I've just had a great idea. How about we finish off all your incredibly good beer, your old man divorces you and then you can come and live with me. I can guarantee you a totally sheep-free existence!"

"Thanks," Elen says, deadpan. "I'll think about that," and the way she says it sounds so very much like Ianto that Owen has to take a good gulp of his tea to keep a straight face.

They end up settled in Elen's nice snug living room, with most of Owen's wish-list neatly ticked off. He's back in his own clothes, dry and warm right next to the log-piled fireplace, he's on his third bottle of Chimay, and there's a big plate of food on the coffee table between them, ham and chicken and cheese and pickles. And on the telly, they've just managed to catch the highlights of Wales being utterly hammered by Scotland in the Six Nations. 

Owen doesn't hold back from cheering the Scots for every try, since their hostess has already gone to bed. "My alarm's set for one a.m.," Elen had said on the stairs. "We're like a tag team here. I think I've seen more of you two than I have of my husband for the last week now!"

Owen had enjoyed the sight of her arse going up the stairs. She's definitely fit and seems to be up for a laugh, but maybe it's a good thing she's left them to themselves. Fancying someone who looks so much like Ianto is not how he wants to be messing with his own head right now, thank you very much.

Owen watches Ianto's hand hovering over the food, picking out a slab of Caerphilly from under the ham. "What's this - you a closet vegetarian now?"

Ianto looks confused. "No. I wasn't - I suppose I haven't really eaten a lot of meat, not since, um..."

Not since their last trip to the country. Owen gives him a sympathetic grimace. It would be understandable if Ianto had gone off meat after that. Not that it had had the slightest impact on Owen's own eating habits. That was the advantage of a medical career. Either you quickly grew out of the instinct to vomit at the sight of a human body eviscerated in front of your eyes, or you gave up and found yourself a nice bloodless job in accountancy.

Thinking about it, he can't remember what he'd eaten when they came back from Brynblaidd. Well... Gwen, mostly. That first night she'd come to him, damaged and hungry and he'd been hard from the moment she walked through his door. It all feels like a long time ago now. Before Diane. It's funny to think that he hasn’t slept with anyone, hasn't fucked anyone, since Diane: hasn't wanted to. Tomorrow it'll be six weeks to the day since Christmas Eve.

Owen drains his beer, walks through to the kitchen for a couple more. Ianto is matching him bottle for bottle at the moment, and the bottles are small but 7% abv., and Elen has at least three crates in her pantry and she'd told them to help themselves to as much as they wanted. Could be worse, Owen thinks, pinging the caps into the recycling bin labelled 'metals'. At least it isn't the lethal Blue Label at nine per cent.

When he gets back, the Welsh team are trailing dejectedly off the pitch and Ianto's scowling at the telly. "Nice gaff your cousin's got here," Owen says, handing over the other bottle. "I didn't think sheep-farming was all that profitable."

"It can be. Hywel's dad started looking into rare breeds a couple of decades back. They've got one of the biggest flocks of Castlemilk Moorits in Wales. Organic meat, and hand-spinners pay a fortune for the fleeces."

"How come you know so much about sheep farming all of a sudden?"

"I used to stay up here in the summer when I was a teenager," Ianto says. "It got me out of the house, and I could earn a bit of money."

"When you were a teenager? Hang on, Elen doesn't look much older than you. How long has she been married?"

That makes Ianto smile, just a bit. "Three years this April. Hywel's my cousin too - other side of the family, though. They met at my niece's christening, and three weeks later Elen packed in her job and moved in with him. All the aunts were scandalised."

"Yeah, the hussy," Owen says. "Is that why you went running up here, then? Bit of nostalgia?"

Ianto stares at the bottle in his hands. "It wasn’t something I planned. I just wanted to get out of the Hub for a while. Out of Cardiff. I knew they wouldn't mind me turning up uninvited."

"Right. So, nothing to do with you thinking of chucking it all in and staying here for good, then?"

It's a guess but a good one. Ianto looks supremely uncomfortable as he pushes further back into the armchair.

"I - did think about it. Yes. A while back, after… After Lisa, and then now, it's - I don't know. I don't know, okay?"

Owen has never, ever seen Ianto at such a loss for words before. His instinct is to press further, keep beating him down. Arguing for fun is in Owen's blood and he relishes a rumble, but he tries hard to think instead of what Jack would do, because there's a very real chance Ianto is actually going to bail out on them, and Owen is not losing someone else he probably needs to hang on to. Three people in six weeks would be a fucking disaster.

"You reckon you could do that?" he says softly. "Swap alien-catching for hiding up here and playing shepherd?"

"It wouldn't be playing. I've done this before, like I said. I'm good at it."

"Yes, yes," Owen waves his beer impatiently. "Ianto Jones, king of almost everything. Apart from fighting, mind you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ianto says sharply, sitting up. It makes Owen smile: underneath that cute, meek pose, Ianto's got as much vanity and arrogance as everyone else. Maybe more.

"What that means is look at me. Look at us two. You're twice my size, you're perfectly fit, you beat up Weevils for a living, but it didn't take me half a minute to lay you flat out and get hold of the Rift blueprints the other day when - you know.”

Ianto looks irritated. "I was trying not to hurt you, you moron."

"Apart from that bit where you shot me? Look, up to that point you were totally dicking around. If you're going to fight someone, you need to make it count, go at it like you mean it. Like I did."

"I noticed. You kicked me in the balls, remember?"

"Yeah, and it worked, didn't it? Look, when we get back, you and I need to do some training. Seriously, I could teach you a few things. I reckon you could look after yourself fine, if you weren't so fucking worried about breaking the Marquess of Queensberry rules half the time."

Ianto looks sceptical. "Why would you bother?" 

Owen shrugs. "When we're running around after God knows what of an evening, I don't want to have to be worrying all the time about whether you can take care of yourself."

"And if I come up here, leave Torchwood, then you don't have me as a liability at all."

Owen takes an impatient swig of beer. "Oh, for fuck's sake. You can make your own mind up. You think you'd be doing something better with your life by hiding up a mountain and chasing around after all those little Sunday roasts, then good luck to you."

"It's busy here," Ianto says doggedly. "They could use the help."

"And what, we'd manage fine back in Cardiff, with just the three of us left? We're having a job at times with four and you know it. Fuck you, teaboy. I'm not going to sit here and whine, _oh Ianto, we need you, we can't do it without you_. Because we can and we will if we have to. It's not like you'd listen to me if I did, anyway."

"Now who's being self-pitying?" Ianto says, and Owen laughs.

"Touché. Look, just - think about it, that's all. What it would mean, you staying here. Are you ready to forget everything you know about us? About Torchwood, Jack..." He takes a breath: he hates saying the name. "Lisa. You'd have to forget her too."

"No!" Ianto is half out of the chair, as if Owen's about to spike his beer right there, before he sinks slowly back. After a while he says softly, "I don't want to be Retconned."

"Sorry, mate. You know how it is. Rules and regulations, yeah? There's a bottle in my coat pocket, I don't leave home without it. But it is your choice."

"To forget everything..." Ianto whispers, and then he's silent again. 

It's way too quiet here, really. It's one of the thousand things Owen detests about the countryside, that great heavy blanket of creepy silence. All he can hear right now is the crackle of the fire, rain on the window-panes, and the quiet but satisfying sounds from the telly of England kicking the shit out of the Italians at Twickenham. No traffic, no doors slamming and sirens and people yelling at each other, no signs of any kind of real civilisation outside of this room. 

He grabs a wedge of pork pie - at least the food's good - and settles back to enjoy the rest of the match. Ianto swigs his beer and stares at the fire.

After the rugby, it's the usual Saturday night bollocks on the telly - CSI: Nantucket, something like that. Trouble is, the remote's over on the other table, and Owen's feeling pleasantly buzzed and warm and not much like moving. He could do with another beer, though. He's about to push himself out of the chair and kill two birds with one stone, when he sees Ianto's head come up at the sound of American voices on the TV. 

Owen picks up both their empty bottles. "Another one?" he says, and Ianto nods, long-faced. He hasn't touched his cheese: well, that sorts out which one of them is going to end up blind puking drunk first. In the kitchen, Owen digs around until he finds a couple of big bags of crisps, brings them back with the beers and grabs the remote as he hands them to Ianto, who looks startled, as if no-one else has ever noticed that he's never said no to crisps.

Owen is surfing, trying to find something that isn't Celebrity Minge or documentaries about Queen Victoria, when Ianto says, "Do you think he'll come back?"

The news. That'll do for now, nice normal wars and terrorists, climate change and cash for questions. Some judge caught with his dick where it shouldn't have been. "Look at that, the dirty old sod," Owen says, miming obscenely with his bottle. "That's Eton for you. And I haven't a clue. All that I know for sure is that he isn't dead."

"You can't know that," Ianto says, his voice low. 

"Oh yes I can. You heard what Gwen said he told her. And I watched Jack Harkness come back from the dead twice in one week, remember? I bloody shot him between the eyes the first time, and I fucking well certified him the second. I don't care what anyone else tries to tell me - even if I see it myself. He might get himself a bit dead from time to time, but Jack doesn't stay dead, no matter what. But will he come back to Torchwood? Who knows?"

"Do you care?" Ianto says, all po-faced earnestness, and he suddenly reminds Owen of Gwen just a bit too much, and why the fuck is he sitting here humouring the sanctimonious prick, anyway? He jumps to his feet and Ianto actually flinches back. 

"What are you doing?"

"Going for a piss," Owen snarls. "Think you can be trusted not to throw yourself out the window while I'm gone?"

Ianto just looks up at him. No words, nothing but big startled eyes and mouth open, the way he'd looked back when he'd been kneeling by Jack's body.

Owen leans in. The urge to hit something is making his hands itch.

"You're having fun dishing out all the questions, right? My turn now. Like, why the fuck are you so full of yourself? Are the rest of us not supposed to give a shit about him unless he's been shagging us too?"

Ianto opens his mouth, but Owen holds up a hand. "No! Shut it. I don't want to hear it, okay?"

There's a toilet downstairs, off the utility room next to the kitchen. Owen's shivering with annoyance as he opens and closes each door carefully, trying not to make any noise. It's not Elen's fault that her stuck-up git of a cousin thinks getting boned by the boss makes him better than everyone else.

The toilet has bare stone walls and it's as cold as a freezer. Owen lets the tap run, pushing his hands under it, rubbing them over his face. The feel of cold clammy flesh reminds him of Jack on the autopsy table, when they'd brought him back from that scorched field. 

A dead body, no question. Owen's dealt with enough of those in his professional life to have known beyond doubt, but even so he'd lifted Jack's hands, touched his face, his neck, searching everywhere for a pulse, just in case all his instruments were somehow screwed up. He's had nightmares about what would have happened if he'd decided to perform an autopsy. 

But that was then, and now...? Maybe a dead body would have been better than no body at all, and no clues and no way of knowing for sure what to do.

No. Definitely not. 

The cold is sobering him up, which might be a good thing.


	4. Chapter 4

There’s a light on in the kitchen. Ianto is at the sink, washing up with slow, meticulous movements, which might be from being a bit drunk or from trying not to make too much noise. He doesn't turn around. Owen leans back against the Aga, watching as he warms his hands. Ianto's stiff-backed silent reproach thing works a lot better in a suit than in loose jeans and a yokel's jumper, but he'd still have to give it top marks for effort.

It's taking forever, each mug and plate scrubbed and rinsed over and over. The way Ianto washes up is way beyond borderline obsessive. After a while, Owen's hands are warm enough. "You do realise there's a dishwasher under the unit, about a yard to your left?" he says.

"It's old, gets noisy," Ianto's voice is flat. "Their bedroom's right over the kitchen."

"Ah, right. Want me to give you a hand with anything?"

"No." 

Wow, he's managed to make Ianto get outright rude. That doesn't happen often. Owen goes back to the living room, pokes the fire about and puts some more wood on without really knowing what he's doing, then starts picking up the empties and the uneaten food. It takes him three trips to tidy up: they've drunk more than he'd realised, and it's still only ten o'clock.

He lines the bottles up next to the bin, wraps the leftovers in cling-film and squeezes them into the fridge, while Ianto carries on heroically ignoring him in favour of emptying the sink and scrubbing down the draining board.

It's when he turns around, scouring pad in hand and clearly looking for his next target, that Owen moves in. "Come on, Ianto, leave it. Get another beer and come and sit down, hm?"

Ianto won't look at him. He shakes his head. "You go. I'll finish up in here and go to bed."

"Suit yourself. You coming back with me tomorrow?"

"I don't know," Ianto's voice is a low whisper.

"Want me to get the Retcon?"

"No, look... I don't know. I'm tired. I need more time."

"Oh no you don't." Owen moves closer. "You need to get over this, right now. I can't afford to have you hanging around on the verge of flaking out on us again. Jesus, what's wrong with you? You survived five months with your fucked-up girlfriend stashed in the basement -"

"Don't!" Ianto moves then, trying to get to the door: Owen blocks his way.

"You fronted it out then! None of us had a clue what was going on, what you were up to. You weren't blundering around like the living dead back then. What the fuck is your problem now? Or are you just more in love with Jack than you ever were with her?"

That should do it. Ianto's head comes up and his fists are clenched. Owen glances behind him - stone floor, could be worse, just as long as he doesn't smack his head against anything - and nods, bracing himself. "Alright, let's see if you can aim better with your fist this time."

"Why? So you can punch me back twice as hard?" And it's Ianto who abruptly backs off, the anger in his face ebbing away into bewilderment.

Damn. In Owen's world, a good dirty fight is usually the best way to clear the air. "Look, I just want you to get over it, okay? Sort yourself out, whatever it takes. I'm fed up with you crawling around all the time like a dog waiting to get its arse kicked."

"More like you, is that what you want me to be?" 

"Well I'm coping, aren't I?"

"But I'm not like you!" Ianto is backed up against the sink, looking trapped and wretched. "That isn't what you want, anyway. You detest the idea we might have anything in common! Like when I tried to tell you I understood, about Diane - because of Lisa, because of losing her. Remember? You looked like you were going to kill me for even suggesting it!"

He remembers. Diane flying right out of his life, _wanting_ to fly away. Choosing to leave him, on Christmas Eve, just to put the final touch to his misery. How the hell could Ianto have any idea how that -

The realisation hits him in that instant, hard as any punch. 

When Katie had died and Jack had recruited him to Torchwood, the one thing Owen had been certain about was that he would never love again. Not like that, not with his whole heart. Only Jack and Torchwood had kept him from ending it all back then. What idiot would be mad enough to risk feeling like that a second time?

Only Jack had known, and Owen had made damned sure it stayed that way. His own past hidden away better than any creature in the basement. It hadn’t been a problem, no need to put up barriers. Sex, sure: women, as many as he could get. The odd man here and there. The fewer strings, the better. You don’t need love to get your cock hard. 

Until Diane came into his life from out of nowhere, as if love had been out there all along, a falcon soaring in the bright sky, waiting for a chance to teach a lesson to any man arrogant enough to think he could order it to stay or go at his whim. The agony of losing Katie hadn’t made any difference, not to the sudden raging fire of his love for Diane, not to the bone-deep sorrow of losing her.

Ianto had been right all along, almost. Lisa had been his Katie. And Jack was his Diane: the spark of hope his heart hadn’t been able to keep out, gifted - and then snatched away just the same. 

The only difference was how they’d borne that pain a second time. Owen’s way: days and nights of cold numb anger, drinking, brawling, then Weevils and Mark Lynch’s mad Fight Club, and he'd hardly been out of the hospital before Jack was missing, Tosh was missing, everything was unravelling. He can remember it all like a fever, sick and desperate: the old dancehall, the Rift manipulator, grappling with Ianto on the floor of the Hub…

Ianto is watching. When Owen shifts he glances away, staring at the kitchen floor.

"Ianto, look, I - was kind of having a bad week, that's all. A bad month. Diane was gone, and…”

Ianto’s way? This. Flight, refuge with a few decent people who cared about him. Other than Jack, could Owen really say that had been true of anyone in their team? Himself least of all. After Lisa, they’d all kept their distance, because that was how you survived Torchwood, wasn’t it? Nice strong mental barriers, hide your emotions, to hell with everyone else. 

Or perhaps that was just Owen Harper’s way. And at this moment, for the first time he’s not sure it’s been the right way.

"I guess it was more like a whole bad year for you," Owen says quietly, and Ianto gives a small shrug. The kitchen's stark overhead light doesn't suit him: he looks paler than ever, head bowed and face white as milk… and a little light inside Owen's own head suddenly switches on. “Huh. Oh, you moron. Give me your hand."

"What?" Ianto couldn't have looked more surprised if Owen had actually been proposing to him.

"Come on, just -" Owen snaps his fingers. Ianto is not what you'd call touchy-feely, but he's usually good at following orders, and Owen's got his no-nonsense voice on, the one honed nicely over three years post-qualification at Cardiff Royal Infirmary. Ianto reaches out cautiously, and Owen grabs his hand and tugs him into the pool of light over the table. 

Warm skin, rougher than Owen had expected. Slim fingers. Owen checks off the poor state of Ianto's normally well-manicured nails, the pale nail-beds, and kicks himself. "Feeling knackered these days, out of breath?" Ianto nods. "Got a headache?"

Ianto touches his forehead. "Yeah, here. Probably had too much beer."

Owen drops Ianto's hand and reaches in to quickly tug his eyelid down. Yes, yeah: he sees the pale inner lid, hint of blue in the schleral tissue, before Ianto flinches back automatically. Owen laughs and leans back. "Nice try, Doctor Jones, but shit diagnosis. You're anaemic." 

Ianto frowns. "Don't be ridiculous. That's a - women get anaemia."

"Yeah, and little kids, and great big idiots who run around all day fuelled up on crisps and pizza and won't touch red meat anymore because it gives them the heebie-jeebies. Everyone knows what a crappy diet you have - Christ, even Jack used to nag you about it. You wouldn't know a green vegetable if it bit you. Classic iron-deficiency anaemia. It's a bloody embarrassment I didn't pick it up before now."

"I have been feeling tired," Ianto admits. "Headaches, more than usual..."

"Why didn't you say? Hello, fully qualified doctor here, remember?"

"Thought I was just run down," Ianto says vaguely, and doesn't add, _and you've been trying to get on my case every five minutes_ , which is what Owen knows he'd have pointed out if their roles were reversed. 

"Yeah, well, it's not serious, but it won't have been helping much. Okay, obviously I'm right but I'll run a quick haemoglobin test when we're back at the Hub, get you on some supplements. In the meantime..."

He heads back to the utility room. Elen is definitely some kind of Welsh version of Nigella Lawson. She's got a lovely big chest freezer, stocked to the hinges and, yes, there's a bag of frozen spinach in the second basket. Owen grabs a few dark green nuggets and sticks them in a bowl on top of the Aga. Ianto is sitting at the table, watching him as he opens and shuts cupboard doors.

"Where's the frying pan around here?" 

Ianto points to a cupboard behind him. "What are you doing?"

"Well, I don't carry iron tablets with me... maybe I should, if you're planning on sticking around. In the meantime, you can make do with a nice spinach omelette. Better than nothing."

"And you're cooking it for me?" Ianto says disbelievingly.

"Well, unless you want to do it yourself. Though not if you're going to faint like a girl and brain yourself on the Aga."

"No, I'll watch," Ianto says, settling back. He's got that _Ianto_ look going on, the one where he doesn't actually believe anyone else is smart enough to use the coffee machine or the dishwasher. Which shows what an idiot he is, since the only reason Owen never sets foot in the Hub's kitchen is in case some twat starts expecting him to make a habit of it.

As it happens, he quite likes to cook. It's guaranteed to get reluctant birds into the sack, for one thing. Why else had all those ugly bastards like Jamie Oliver and Gordon Ramsay started dicking around in the kitchen?

Owen hadn't been planning on eating more, but then he adds a bit of grated cheese to the eggs, and the smell when it starts to cook changes his mind. He grabs plates and a couple more beers, then slices half off for himself and slides the rest onto Ianto's plate as he sits down. Omelettes are hard to screw up unless you're a complete idiot, but this one does look pretty good, not that he has anything to prove to the teaboy, mind you.

Ianto takes a forkful. "Thank you. This - isn't bad."

"No need to sound so surprised." But the sight of Ianto scoffing it down is gratifying anyway. For the first time that night, Owen finds the silence tolerable as they eat and drink side-by-side.

Ianto finishes first, watching with one eyebrow raised as Owen runs a finger around his own plate and licks it clean. God, melted butter and cheese might be arterial hell, but they taste like heaven every time.

"So, all the old Popeye cartoons were true, then? I thought spinach being good for you was an old wives' tale."

Owen shakes his head, still chasing the last traces. "It's not the best iron source, but it'll do for now. Plus there's potassium, magnesium, calcium. The eggs as well, they're iron-rich. You definitely need to be eating more eggs."

Clearly, the finger-licking is just too distressing: Ianto wrestles Owen's plate out of his grasp and heads back to the sink. Great, another excuse to break out the Fairy Liquid. Oh well, one bad habit at a time. Owen sits back - after all, he did the cooking, so Ianto can clear up, not to mention it’d be a shame to rob the man of his perverted pleasure. 

In the window, he can see Ianto's reflection yawning as he drains the washing-up bowl and rinses the sink again. Of course, that sets Owen off himself. Fucking ridiculous: the night is still young, and now they're both staggering about like geriatrics.

Ianto catches him in mid-yawn, and smiles. "I'm going to bed now. Do you need me to show you where anything else is down here?"

"Nah, I'm going to call it a day too. It's you and your bloody yomp-up-Snowdon thing, you realise? I'm knackered. If we were back in Cardiff, I'd be getting ready to hit the town about now. You've ruined a perfectly good Saturday night for me." He sees Ianto cast one last long, hopeful look around the kitchen, and twitches the washing-up sponge out of his hand. "And you can pack that in!"

Ianto looks as if he's going to argue, before another yawn snaps his face in half. He contents himself with straightening the dishcloth over the handle of the Aga, before Owen ushers him out of the kitchen with an exasperated sigh. "Bugger the anaemia. What you need to get treated for is the bloody cleaning compulsion. It's not healthy, you know?"

He hears Ianto's quiet laugh drifting back as he shuts the kitchen door and follows him upstairs.


	5. Chapter 5

The bedroom's cold. Very cold. They're sharing a small plain room with two single beds, a sloping ceiling and a creepy-looking chest-of-drawers, and not much else. No radiator, bloody typical. Owen kicks off his trainers and crawls fully-dressed into bed, waiting for Ianto to get out of the bathroom. He's feeling full and mellow from the beer and the omelette supper, and he wants to be asleep before this chilly little room drives the comfortable warmth out of him.

Ianto comes back, barefoot in a too-big t-shirt and a pair of boxers that have to belong to his cousin, Owen hopes, because they've got the little plasticine sheep from Wallace and Gromit all over them. He's folding the jeans and jumper carefully, hanging them over the back of a chair, and yawning again as Owen goes past.

"Jesus. Aren't you cold?"

Ianto looks genuinely puzzled. "No. Are you?"

Owen rolls his eyes. The bathroom's warm, but the chimney breast from the living room runs up one wall. He has another piss, splashes hot water over his face, and notices a neat black sponge bag on the side of the bath, lined up parallel with the wall tiles. It has to be Ianto's: he's the type who would keep at least some kind of overnight bag in his car, just in case. Can't have a nervous breakdown with manky teeth and messy hair, after all. 

Owen rummages through it. Shaving kit, damp-bristled toothbrush, comb, Creed toiletries. In the side pocket are condoms and a small plain plastic bottle with - aha, the dirty shagger - lube. Owen's grinning as he brushes his teeth, though that's partly because he knows Ianto would have a coronary at the idea of someone else using his toothbrush. Owen has no such qualms, especially not after a day and a half on the road. He's fed up with feeling like his teeth have been carpeted.

Ianto is the nutter who eats takeaways with a napkin tucked into his collar. It's hard to think that he's not just as squeamish about sex. Then again, Owen can't imagine that Jack would have had much interest in screwing anyone who couldn't or wouldn't let rip and go wild in the sack. It's a conundrum, though he's willing to bet that Ianto loses that prim composure just as fast as any other man when someone warm and friendly sticks their tongue up his arse.

The bedroom's still bloody cold when he gets back. Owen shucks his jeans and scrambles quickly into bed. From the other side of the room, Ianto says, "I put a blanket on there for you. And there's a glass of water there on the side."

"Great. Electric blanket, was it?" Ianto shakes his head. It might help, Owen thinks, but he can feel a sharp draught coming from the window by his bed as he pulls the duvet up to his chin. Ianto reaches out and switches off the chintzy blue lamp next to his bed, and Owen fidgets in the dark, tired but uncomfortable, trying to cover up his ears without baring his toes at the same time.

The second time he turns over, there's a huge glowing face a foot away from his own. "Jesus fuck!" Owen yelps, scrambling out of the bed. 

From the other side of the dark room Ianto responds with a startled "What’s the matter?"

"That thing - what the fuck was that? Turn the light on!"

He does. Owen points at the blank wall next to his bed, heart racing. "I could have sworn there was something - "

Ianto rubs his face blearily, sighing. "Oh, the Cheese Ghost. Sorry, I should have said." 

"The what?"

"It's luminous paint. Hywel's uncle Gethin painted a face on the wall when we were kids. I think it was supposed to be like a night-light, but it used to give us all nightmares. Hywel reckoned it looked like one of those big cheese truckles, trying to haunt us. Just kid's stuff."

"Yeah, well..." Owen mutters, feeling tricked and foolish. That thing's face had reminded him of nothing so much as Abbadon. He wonders if Ianto would see the resemblance too. "I don't care what it is, it's disgusting. And this bed's right by the window, no wonder I'm freezing my arse off here. Why aren't you sleeping in this one?"

Ianto sits up fully. "We can swap if you want. Although I slept in this bed last night, and I haven't changed the sheets -"

Owen laughs shortly. Ianto is so clean he's practically sterile. "I'll risk your nits, you can have the bed with the fucking demon face and the draught."

Ianto shrugs and nods, pushing the duvet back. They swap places. "More like it," Owen says happily, burrowing down. Ianto had only been in there five minutes and this bed already feels ten times warmer than Owen's had. He watches Ianto carefully exchanging the two glasses of water before getting into the other bed.

Owen reaches for the lamp and settles back. It's fine, for a few minutes. Definitely less of a chilly breeze, and the freaky tribal art on the far wall is now just a distant glow behind the bump of Ianto's head. 

After a bit, though, he can feel his body heat leaching out into the heavy duvet. It's supposed to be the other way round, damn it. He twists about, trying to find a comfortable position. If he'd known it would be like this, he'd have stayed downstairs and kipped in the armchair in front of that nice warm fire.

Shit. Two nights in a row sleeping in unheated, draughty bedrooms in the middle of February. Not to mention the invigorating hike up that bloody mountain in the freezing rain. A cold, that's all he needs right now, and whose fault is it all? Owen sits up, listening. Ianto's breathing is slow and steady. "Oi, Ianto! Ianto! You awake?"

"No," Ianto's voice is muffled, as if he's got the covers over his head. "What is it now?"

"I'm still cold. Got any more blankets? A heater?"

He hears Ianto sigh in the darkness. "I don't know if there's a heater anywhere, and I'm not waking Elen up to ask. Do you want this blanket? I feel fine."

"Well, lucky old you," Owen carps. God, he hates the cold. It's the one big drawback to being a bit on the skinny side. "I can't get to sleep like this, the place is a bloody igloo. Just sort something out, alright?"

There's no reply. Owen's about to bark out something about people who can't even stay awake in the middle of a conversation, when Ianto says hesitantly, "I could come over there, if you want."

"What, swap back again? What good would that do?"

Another silence. "I didn't mean swap places, no."

Oh. _Ohh._ "Are you suggesting we should sleep together? You and me?"

"You're cold, I'm warm. It's the only thing I can think of," Ianto says, and he sounds almost apologetic. 

Owen frowns. They must both be much more drunk than he'd realised, because the idea of being next to a nice warm body right now is actually pretty appealing. Even if it's _Ianto_ , who doesn't hug, doesn't like being touched, doesn't - he's always assumed - particularly like Owen. 

Either this is the most obscure proposition he's had in a long time, or it's nothing more than Ianto doing the same thing he's been doing ever since he came to Torchwood Three. Solving other people's problems, trying to make himself useful. Well, at least that makes more sense than a sudden moment of crazed lust out of the blue.

Anyway, it's not as if he himself has anything better to suggest. 

"Alright, why not?" Owen says, and listens to Ianto getting up, crossing the darkness, then bumping awkwardly into the side of the bed. "Hang on, no, not there - I want to sleep on this side. You'll have to go next to the wall. Oh - and no sneaky trying to cop a feel, right?"

Ianto's exasperated, very Welsh "Fuck's sake!" is almost lost in the little flurry of rustling and scrambling as Owen makes space and Ianto climbs over him in the dark. There isn’t a lot of space. Under the duvet Ianto leans carefully against Owen's side, hand resting by his waist, barely in contact but wow, Ianto really is amazingly _warm_. Who'd have guessed? A whole human thermo-reactor hidden inside that stiff-backed, anal retentive pose, all this time.

Owen breathes out, relaxing, and he can feel rather than hear the short huff of amusement from Ianto. "Better?"

"Maybe. And how the hell are you so warm?"

"I don't know, I've always been like this. Used to drive Lisa mad, though. She'd make me sleep on top of the covers in summer."

"I bet Jack doesn't complain," Owen says enviously.

"Not when he's trying to warm his feet against my back, no."

A couple of months ago, Owen would have found it impossible to get his head around that cosy little image. Of course he'd seen the way Ianto lit up around Jack, who hadn't? Endlessly polite and patient with the rest of them, but for Jack Ianto would pull out all the stops, always looking for some new way of anticipating what Jack might need. And then there was the way that Jack was always taking care these days to acknowledge him with a nod, a smile, an inaudible _thank you_. And the way that would make Ianto smile, every time, this little satisfied, secretive smile.

He'd meant it as an easy jibe, baiting Ianto over the Rift machine. _Part-time shag_. Taking the piss out of the tea-boy and his sad gay crush on the boss. Even when he'd walked back into the main room and seen the pair of them locked together from head to toe, Owen hadn't really made sense of what was right in front of his eyes. It had been enough of a shock to see Jack standing there fresh out of the bloody morgue, alive, as good as new.

He could have told himself that the big public embrace was Ianto's doing. Throwing himself at Jack like an ecstatic dog when the master comes back home. But the kiss...? No way of kidding himself about that. Jack making the running there, cupping Ianto's face, drawing him in, hungry and tender and completely deliberate, making sure everyone saw. Jack never let anything show by accident. He remembers it now, the way Jack hadn't let go of Ianto until the last possible moment as Owen had walked towards them. One hand lingering on Ianto's waist, even as he turned.

Ianto is just about leaning against him now, steady and warm, his breath tickling Owen's ear. "I think he'll come back," Owen says carefully into the darkness, and he feels the tiny helpless lurch of Ianto's hand. 

"Oh. Why?"

"Because I reckon he just needed a break from being in charge, keeping an eye on all of us. Saving the world, all that bollocks. He's got his feet up somewhere, having a drink and a laugh. He'll have his little holiday, and then he'll just walk back through the door, clapping his hands together and yapping on, _21st century, guys, you gotta be ready_ , blah blah. And you'll probably go and punch him right in the face again."

Ianto is silent next to him for a while. Then he says, "If that's true, would he come back? What if he'd just had enough of - us, all of us? Why else would he go _right then_ , like that, after everything that had happened?"

"Maybe he finally thought he _could_ , you know? That we'd be OK without him for a bit. Keep an eye on each other. Maybe it took him all that time to trust us to stick together while he's away?"

"Maybe..." Ianto whispers, sounding uncertain. Owen has no doubts, though. Jack's hand reaching for him had been every bit as clear a message as Jack kissing Ianto, and he's got no intention of giving Jack any reason to regret putting that trust in him.

_I forgive you._

Owen pats Ianto's arm lightly. "You know, he might be back there right now. Stamping around the Hub, doing his nut because no-one knows where we are. Have you thought of that?"

"I think he'd probably still know how to call my mobile, or yours, if that was the case."

"Probably can't get a signal without you helping him out." Of course, Jack is already right there, squeezed into the narrow bed with the two of them. There is no way Ianto would have been lying next to him, albeit a bit stiffly, without Jack invisibly sandwiched between them, barrier and bond all at once. Ianto sighs quietly, his head dropping a little closer to Owen's. He's probably imagining it, but he can almost smell Jack on Ianto's skin. Ianto feels lean and soft, like a cat... is this how he and Jack used to sleep together? Did they get all that much sleep? 

Now, there's a thought. Owen's tired, but sometimes his imagination is like a greyhound out of the trap, impossible to stop.

He gives Ianto a nudge with his shoulder. "So, what's Jack like in bed, then?"

Ianto groans, "Fuck off, Owen," but his voice is amused.

"No, seriously, I mean is he any good? I've seen how big his knob is - can he actually do anything useful with it?"

"No, seriously, fuck off."

"Who gets to be on top? Did he fuck you, or did he ever let you fuck him? Did you take turns on different days of the week?"

That sends a tremor of laughter through Ianto. "What's that thing Jack says about quaint little categories? Why are you so interested anyway?"

"Just curious. All that flirting, the innuendo, the bragging. Does he live up to it?"

In the warm darkness, Ianto is still quivering slightly. "Tell you what. Why don't you ask him to show you himself, when he comes back?"

Owen shakes his head. "Feh. I don't think so."

"Why not? Afraid he might queer you up?"

"Not to shock you here, Dafydd, but you're not the only metrosexual in the village. I have slept with men, you know."

Ianto sounds surprised. "When did you... not with Jack?"

"Shag-tastic Harkness? Oh yeah, three times a week and twice on Sundays, before you turned up and started batting your eyelashes at him -" and Ianto has gone completely still. Owen jabs a finger into his side. "No, Brainiac, I'm winding you up - why else would I be asking? Christ, you're touchy. Listen, I'll let you into a secret. Not only am I pretty sure Jack doesn't fancy me all that much, I actually don't fancy him either."

Ianto is still tense. "I don't believe you. Everyone wants Jack."

"No," Owen laughs. "No, they really don't. Not everyone. You, lots and lots and lots of other people, and not me. There's probably a few other not-fancying-Jack freaks out there, too. It's in the eye of the beholder, you know that. I mean, did you think Diane was hot?"

"Did I - ?" Ianto flusters. "I, she was very beautiful. Stunning."

"Yeah, but she didn't turn you on, did she?" Ianto shakes his head. "See? And I thought she was the sexiest, most desirable woman I've met in years. I still do." 

And it still hurts all the way down, bright and sharp in his memory, and as distant as starlight. Even after all that's happened since, even lying here back in the real world, tired but warm at last, relaxed and mellow with the beer. Ianto is silent at his side: Owen can hear the cogs turning. He twists a little, trying to make out Ianto's face in the darkness.

"That's the thing, isn't it. Different people, different - libidos. Something. Like, oh I don't know… I mean, do you fancy Gwen?"

Ianto wriggles slightly, clearing his throat. "Ah... Yes. Actually, I do. She’s got that, you know…”

Owen knows. He smirks. ”You do? God, you really are a total slut. I bet she'll love that when I tell her. Alright, what about Tosh?"

“No-o-o, not sure why. She's attractive, she's very sweet, but no."

"What about me?" Owen says casually.

There's a long, still silence. And then Ianto leans in slowly, body pressing close at last, lips brushing against Owen's cheek, settling tenderly against his ear, his voice a seductive whisper. 

" _Fuck. Off. Owen._ "

They both laugh as Ianto settles back and it's nice, it's okay, knowing he finally can make Ianto laugh. Weird and all that, with the two of them here like this, but that's Torchwood for you. 

He wakes in the night: Ianto has shifted closer, his head resting right on the exit wound where he'd shot Owen. It's healing fine, but the damned thing still aches. Owen mutters, shoving, and Ianto shifts back but doesn't wake up. 

There's a faint light in the room, from the luminous thing and the landing light spilling under the door. He can't remember seeing Ianto asleep before, and he looks different without his usual faintly condescending mask, guileless and young. 

Owen had read the reports. Over eight hundred people at Torchwood HQ on the day the Cybermen broke through. Fifty-one survivors by the end, though nearly half of those had died since, some from their injuries and the rest a handful of furtive, desperate suicides. 

A three per cent survival rate, that had to mean something. 

Ianto had turned up in Cardiff a fortnight after the battle. Easing himself right into the heart of the Hub, self-effacing and useful and blandly pretty, sliding silently under their radar. Even Jack hadn't stopped to ask himself how the young man who fetched and carried and cleaned up after them all, from sunrise to sunset and half the nights, too, never seemed to get dirty himself. Was never resentful, never complained, never swore and sweated and screwed up like everyone else. 

Maybe that was the attraction for Jack. Lisa wasn't the only thing Ianto had kept hidden away. Owen imagines Jack turning Ianto in his hands like a puzzle, a sleek velvet box. Stroking and touching over and over, trying to figure out the way to unlock him without breaking him apart. Maybe he already had.

Or maybe Jack just liked being the one who got to see Ianto like this, unguarded and trusting. Owen rests a fingertip against Ianto's cheek, traces down, and Ianto sighs and stirs, pressing his lips to Owen's shoulder. Is he dreaming of Lisa, or Jack? Owen closes his eyes, leaving his fingers resting loosely on the pulse in Ianto's throat.


	6. Chapter 6

He wakes up to daylight, and a cup of coffee on the chair by his bed. No sign of Ianto. The coffee's hot, though he doesn't remember being woken up.

He sits up slowly, expecting to feel hung-over and stiff from sleeping awkwardly in a strange cramped little bed in a strange freezing little room. Oddly, though, it's the reverse: he feels relaxed and clear-headed. Has to be the Chimay. He needs to get a few crates of that in at home, when he gets back. Good stuff.

Owen drains the cup - definitely Ianto's handiwork, unless there's a coffee-making gene that goes along with the dark hair and the long quirky nose. He drags his jeans quickly back on, and heads down to the kitchen. 

Ianto is at the table, dressed in his suit which doesn't look at all bad, considering it was soaked through yesterday. The shirt is crisp and gleaming. Owen wouldn't put it past the sad sod to have got up at the crack of dawn to wash and iron it.

There's a large man standing at the sink, cup in hand. Ianto just nods casually at Owen, which is a relief since Owen isn't at his best in the mornings and, if Ianto had been pulling _Oh good morning, you do recall that we spent the night slumbering contentedly in each other's arms_ faces, Owen would probably have smacked him with the frying pan.

He's eating toast. "Good, stick some more on," Owen says, sliding the last slice off Ianto's plate before he can grab it.

Ianto gets up, gesturing at the sink as he loads more bread onto the Aga hotplate. "My cousin Hywel," he says. "My other cousin, that is. Hywel, this is Doctor Owen Harper, my colleague."

Thank God, Hywel bears absolutely no resemblance to either Ianto or Elen, because that would have been too weird for words. He's blocky and red-faced, with light brown hair and a wide mouth and no obvious redeeming attractiveness whatsoever. Owen thinks of foxy little Elen, probably still hot even if she’s somewhere outside right now with her arm up a sheep’s fanny. It’s an unfair world that lets this big ugly bastard warm his hands on her gorgeous tits every night.

Hywel is appraising him right back, unabashed. "Colleague, is it? You're not this boss, then? The one he's been banging on about."

Ianto coughs faintly behind him. Must have swallowed a bit of toast the wrong way. "Nah, just one of the team," Owen says cheerfully, itching to know what Ianto might have been saying about Jack. "He's away on business."

Hywel grunts. "So, terrorists right here in Gwynedd! Did you find what you were after?"

Counter-terrorism was Torchwood's standard line for family and friends who were asking too many questions. Nice and vague and intimidating enough to be useful for slapping down anyone whose curiosity was getting intrusive. Most people let it go if you started to clear your throat and mutter sternly about national security.

"False lead," Ianto says smoothly, and Owen nods. 

"Yeah, happens all the time. Still, we did get to take a nice trip up Snowdon which was very - scenic."

"Not a total waste," Ianto murmurs, eyes on Owen, and there's the faintest look of uncertainty about him. Owen gives him a nod and a quick grin, and Ianto nods back, blandness restored, and hands him a fresh cup of coffee.

Hywel's face is full of that oh-my-goodness-state-secrets look. "Ah well, it's one hell of a job you're doing, eh? I'm back out to the sheep - fifteen of 'em lambing last night, and one not looking too good. Elen reckons she's doing roast beef for lunch. You staying?"

Ianto looks briefly at Owen. "Sorry, Hywel. We have to get back this morning. I don't think the boss would want us to be away from Cardiff for too long while he’s not there."

Owen turns away, hiding the dopey little smirk he hadn't planned on getting. "You're just fretting about what kind of mess the place has got into while we've been away." 

"Huh," Hywel nods. "Cleans up after you lot all the time too, does he? Drives us all bloody mad. Well, don't forget to say goodbye to El before you head off, _garan_. That job... She worries about you, you know."

"Oh, we all keep an eye on each other," Ianto says, and for a moment he has the tiny, contented smile that's usually saved for Jack.

Owen sits down, stretching. Yeah, well, so he's not Jack. But they'll manage, for now, they'll be alright. It's what Jack will be expecting of his team, after all.

He leans back, and lets Ianto butter his toast for him.

**Author's Note:**

> When I wrote this, quite a bit of TW fandom hated Owen - not hard, as his first-season character really was a slimy misanthropic twat. But he used to make me laugh, clearly had some depth of feeling / humanity that drove his self-loathing - and I really wanted the team to be more team-y, so I wrote this. Fortunately S2 Owen didn't joss the hell out of this fic. I miss Owen. I miss Torchwood. RIP.


End file.
